As for my love life, it’s pretty simple.
Sophie.
Just Sophie, my one and only. I fell for her like a ton of bricks in our third year. We were both studying astronomy, both fascinated with the stars, and we became study partners after being forced into it our first week of class when random lots were drawn. Teacher’s way of getting folks to know one another, I guess. Still, we did, and we are, if you know my meaning.
Sophie and I married at the clerk’s office, with only her sister and mother present on her side (her dad being estranged), and just Death next to me, handing me the ring, being my best man. After, we all went for drinks, and had a time of it. Death danced with Sophie, her sister and her mum, which was sweet, and the small band played a waltz for our wedding dance.
TIME MARCHES ON, though, and as the years passed Death and I grew apart.
Sophie and I took a place in the city, and Death travelled quite a bit on business, so it was a matter of stationary versus motion. Still, we saw each other on holidays, and he always had some pale-faced, black-haired lass on his arm, so I suppose he was happy in a way. I certainly was.
Sophie and I got on even better in marriage than we had as lovers. We were soulmates, Sophie and I. It’s true. I took a job at an insurance firm (selling life, primarily), and Sophie wanted to teach, being a lover of children. We couldn’t have any of our own, but that’s a story for another day.
But life goes on, grows complex, grows… well, just grows, doesn’t it?
Didn’t see Death much, often a year would go by and we wouldn’t even speak. When I did see him, he always seemed a bit down, a bit peevish. Complained about the job and all that. It was hard, I guess. Lots of travel. Tough work, I’d think. Certainly not the most uplifting of professions. I worried about him quite a bit, being lonely, a cast-off. It’s a hard life, being Death.
“And how’s Sophie?” he asked one evening over pints, having met me during a layover on his way to the States.
“Oh, fine, fine,” I answered. “Still teaching. Loves it, though, just loves it.”
“And how’s her darling sister? Fanny.”
And so it went. Small talk and catching up. He still single, me still married and living the nine-to-five. Layovers and holidays. Occasional dinners and phone calls. E-mails. He’d tell me of exotic places, of strange adventures.
Years went by, and they were happy years. All of them.
I loved her so.
HE TOOK SOPHIE in her 67th year.
He sat with me afterward, as she lay in the other room, skin cooling. We’d moved to a house by then. Garden out back, long drive through trees in front. She was setting to retire. I had already done so a couple years back. We had planned to travel, to see more of the world. There was so much we hadn’t seen, so much we hadn’t done. I missed her in the past, and the future, if that makes sense. Sad both ways.
We sat on my sofa, his hand on mine. He looked younger than me, by decades truth be told. He said he aged slower than most. Not me. I’d aged right on schedule. Grown a nice belly, lost most of the hair, wore spectacles to see the labels on my and Sophie’s medicine.
Sophie, despite being technically a month my elder, had always looked younger than me, I can tell you. Almost as young as Death himself. She’d been so beautiful, so energetic. And now she was gone, and I was truly, desperately, alone.
“You made it quick, yeah?” was all I could say.
“Of course, mate. I do what I can,” he said, and I nodded, and cried. He put his arm over my shoulder as I slobbered and despaired, hating life, hating him.
As he was leaving, I stopped him, and you could say it was pity, but it wasn’t that, it was anger, and selfishness. That’s the truth of it.
“Don’t come,” I said. “To the funeral. Don’t come.”
He didn’t turn, didn’t look at me. Just stood by the open door, head bowed. A dark figure against the pale morning light, an empty man, a lonely man. He nodded, but then said, “I’d like to. I loved her.”
“No, thanks,” I answered. “Don’t think I want to see you again, actually.” And, without another word between us, I went to say goodbye to my wife, to wet her dress with my tears.
Nearly twenty years went by after that day, and I regretted my words every one of them. I missed Sophie, and I missed my friend.
Because I never did see him again.
Until the end, that is.
“COME FOR ME, then?” I said.
I was in my late eighties, not sure which exact one because I’d stopped counting; and besides, they’d been eventless years.
I was in the garden, watching bees steal pollen from Sophie’s flowers. The place was more overgrown now than when she’d tended it, but I was old, and tired, and could only do so much to keep it going.
I sensed him before I saw him, standing by the back door, watching me watch the bees.
He walked toward me without a word, sat down lightly in the garden chair neighboring my own, a small table between us with a glass of iced tea perspiring on its top. We sat in silence, watched the sun lower in the sky, watched the birds flitter about, watched the long grass lean in the breeze.
“Drink?” I said, still not looking at his face, not wanting to see what expression he’d be wearing. “Iced tea is the strongest I have these days, I’m afraid.”
